Humor

Tap Into Life’s Lessons

lillian12 Comments


Magic shoes! Shiny black with big looped bows
slabs of silver metal screwed on soles.
Best gift ever, when I was oh so young.
And oh how I remember…..

NOISE.
PURE NOISE!!!
Swing a leg. Stomp, march, slap, clang!!
Body all feet. ALL SOUNDS.
EVEN WHen i tiptoed.
Add lessons, Tuesdays at ten.
To learn.
Teacher teaches,
directs, muzzles.
Shu-ffle, shu-ffle.
Shu- no, NO, NO!
SHHHH!!!
Like-this.
Con-trol the-swing,
shor-ter. NOT so big.
Shu-ffle, shu-ffle.
One-two, one-two.
Slow-down. Con-trol the-sound.
Com-press your-space.

And there I was, in the mirrored wall,
shrinking. Like putting reins on little feet.
Learning to be small
while growing big.
Learning to fit in.

Bytes

lillian4 Comments

That dog bit me.
Out of nowhere he came flying
like the proverbial bat out of hell
only bigger, with big teeth
a big bite
not like those feasting mosquitoes
on our sand dunes bike ride
not like the needle bite from
the tetanus shot
when you rushed me to ER.
So where were you this time?
When the dog bit me.

 

Not True

lillian5 Comments

Do not say that to me.
I fall asleep just like you
just not for all night.
Shades down, lids down,
on my eyes, and on the loo too.

Do not say that to me.
Words fail everyone.
Talk stumbles when stress does not
children crave repetition. Repetition
teaches that sink-in kind of learning.

Do not say that to me.
My feet walk through that park
across the street, just like yours.
Except you’re accompanied by two wheels
and one foot pushing that scooter thing.

The one I gave Johnny for his birthday,
I think. I push four wheels in front of me,
all by myself,
and sing merrily I roll along
in perfect pitch.

Do not say that to me.
I will not leave my home.
I am not a hermit crab
that leaves one house for another.
And I am not ready to molt.

Do not say that to me.
I am NOT getting old.
You are.
And I’m pretty sure God is too.

 

Dustings by Two

lillian2 Comments

NaPoWriMo Day 19:  without a prompt.  My mother loved talcum powder. The kind you “dust” all over yourself. I used to go into the bathroom after her and the floor would be slick and the room would have a heavy perfumed scent. One day, after she died in October 1998, I sat on a bench by her yard and watched as several birds found a dirt hole and proceeded to merrily take a dust bath. Sweet sweet memories juxtaposed.

Dustings by Two

Slick wet lavender tiles
window blurred by steam
she gaily sings and trills
pats and swirls a fancy puff
to create lily scented
clouds of talc
her dusting for the day.

Outside the window
hot bereft of rain
a blue bird warbles
wings flap flutter
dried dirt scatters
creates earthy clouds
of cooling swirling dust.

Tillie’s Folly

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NaPoWriMo  without a daily prompt. Some people are bigger than life, right?

Ernestine by name, Tillie by choice
her steps swish with a joi de vivre
cultivated in French 101 enrichment class.

Blinking an eye, she sees the world in pink
through custom made cats eye glasses
with one fuchsia tinted lens.

Treasured childhood memories
hot vacation drives, windows rolled down
rest stops with pralines and all things Florida.

Collector of girlie things
orange blossom eau d’ cologne bottles
among lipsticks on the mirrored vanity.

Milliner by trade, homemade hats
spill from the antique wardrobe
in a cacophony of colors.

Eons of moons ago, a girl of five
learned to live her dreams
a spark of creativity began it all.

Red and yellow feathers molded to rings
she strutted through kindergarten
hand made tiara fit for a queen.

Tillie’s Folly, hat shop to the stars
sold to the highest bidder
her  sashay through life moves on.

Mornings at Sixty-Seven

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Before my rejuvenatement, I was crazed in an all-consuming job  — well, being honest  — I let it be all-consuming. I used to blame caffeine for my hyper and frenzied approach to life.

So here I am, drinking the same amount of coffee, savoring it rather than gulping it, and mea culpa  to the goddess caffeine. Slowing down, my body – not my mind, has made all the difference.


Mornings at Sixty-Seven

Eyes open unbuzzed awake
see him next to me half-covered
grey hair matted with sleep.

Legs stretch with pointed toes
while arms uncoil overhead
the body lumbers out of bed.

Breakfast made and savored
rich aromatic espresso beans
fingers smudged tasting newsprint ink.

At sixty-seven,
my mornings have elongated
into the sublime.

The Next Stage

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Have you read About me yet?

So here I am, comin’ round the bend in my stages of life. And it occurs to me, there’s a reason why I bought a refrigerator magnet that says Do More of What Makes You Happy. Do you do that?  Guess what I choose in the poem below.

 

The Next Stage

A tectonic shift in life occurs
racing to the next mile marker.
Youth and middle age behind,
we peer
beyond the line.

This time
we will choose.
We’ve earned that right.
Read carefully
and then apply.

Wrinkle-free?
Slap on an age-defying
mystical cream
or pull on press-free
dungarees and tee.

Duty-free?
Must have
a tax-free everything-watch
or toss off the Timex and live,
task-free with exuberant flair.

Self-Portrait: Dancer Down

lillian4 Comments

Have you ever been asked to “define” yourself?

In Holly Wren Spaulding’s poetry class, we were asked to write a Self-Portrait Poem. That seems a bit softer, less in-your-face and serious than “defining” myself.

By way of explanation, I took dance lessons from age 4 to 17 with Miss Edith Tewes in Waukegan, Illinois. She was one tough lady and for a long time I fancied myself a budding Rockette. Photo is me in one of the many Boston rehearsals mentioned below.

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Self-Portrait: Dancer Down

There it was. Audition.
Wanted: 100 dancers
for three months prep to perform
in Boston’s Copley Square.
No experience required.
I did this twenty years ago –
in Iowa.
Ninety-nine hoofer-wanna-bes
plus Gene Kelly and me.
Thousands saw me
in the big-ten half-time show
or took a trip for hotdogs
and the john.

So I did it. Again.
Ninety-nine plus me
two nights every week.
Loud fast rehearsals
with slow
every day
repeats
at home
to video
online.
I should have known.
I was twenty years older
not newer.

One month to go.
On burgundy shag carpet
right-turn-slide-spin.
Then on wooden
unforgiving studio floor.
Five-six-seven-eight……
Crap.……dancer down.

Legs sagged. Muscles be damned.
Relegated to rice.
Rest-Ice-Compression-and-
–   – oh hell,
I forget what the E stands for.